The seven iron connected with the man's ribs like a sledgehammer kissing wet concrete.
Crack.
Not a clean break. A wet, splintering collapse. Multiple ribs gave at once—three, maybe four—shards driving inward like broken glass under skin. He folded in half, knees buckling, and hit the pristine artificial turf of the rooftop putting green face-first. Blood erupted from his mouth in a bright, arterial spray that caught the late-afternoon sun and scattered across the emerald surface like someone had flung a handful of wet rubies.
Beautiful, in the same way a slaughterhouse sunrise is beautiful. If your soul had already learned to appreciate the aesthetics of ruin.
Dark Regent appreciated it very much.
